Stubble
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: As a celebration for reaching 300 followers on Tumblr, I selected a random follower and they prompted me to do a Johnlock fic involving John with stubble. This is what happened.


"All right, Sherlock, how is it your face is completely smooth? We've been out here for a week now, you should at least have peach fuzz!" Sherlock ignored the doctor's grousing. They'd been camping in the Forest of Dean for a week, having been forced into taking the case by Mycroft. Sherlock resented being shoved out of their comfortable flat, and if he was uncomfortable it was nothing compared to John, who was at that moment scratching in an annoyed fashion at his stubble. Sherlock froze.

It had been difficult enough spending a week in the tight confines of a tent with John less than a foot away from him at night, the sounds of his breath easing Sherlock off to sleep, but John had gone and forgotten to pack the razors, so there he sat, looking attractively rugged in just his undershirt and trousers. Sherlock threw a jumper at him in frustration. "Quit complaining and put on a shirt," Sherlock hissed, stomping out of the tent. He could hear John struggling into the jumper as the man followed Sherlock into the clearing around the tent.

"Need I remind you that this was your idea? No need to get huffy," John muttered through the fabric, finally popping his head out of the hole in the top. Sherlock made the mistake of taking a glance towards John, and his irritation with the former soldier only grew. Now his hair was all rumpled and begging for Sherlock to come over and play with it.

Control yourself, Holmes, Sherlock silently reprimanded, turning away from John to crouch and prod uselessly at the ashes of last night's fire. He'd resisted his more carnal urges so far, and he would be damned if a little bit of stubble would be the straw to break the camel's back.

Besides, Sherlock mused, glaring at the kindling when it refused to light, it's not like you'd have a shot anyways, he's made his sexuality abundantly clear, parading woman after woman through our flat like some sort of mother duck and her ducklings. The image of John as a duck was enough to make him smirk, lightening his dower mood slightly, but his annoyance quickly returned when the fire simply would not catch. He'd get a bit of kindling going, but then it'd simply putter out.

John chuckled, crouching beside Sherlock. "You've got to blow on it," John pointed out, demonstrating. The kindling caught quickly, and the fire followed so that moments later the campfire was up and chasing away the chill of the morning. "See? Easy," John pronounced, stepping back. Sherlock stood to the side with arms folded, glaring at John's general person. How dare he be so oblivious, if the entirety of London could see it, why couldn't John?

"Shut up, John," he lashed out, stalking back into the tent. John followed him, sounding irritated.

"Woke up on the wrong side of the sleeping bag this morning, or are you just being a prat?" John asked, digging in his backpack. Sherlock scowled and drew his legs up to his chest, officially sulking. John recognized the position if not the reasoning behind it, and promptly moved to sit next to Sherlock, only increasing the detective's discomfort. They sat in silence for a bit, John seemingly content to wait out Sherlock's mood. He just sat there, breathing in slowly and out again, his chest moving slightly and that stubble moving along with his breaths. In that moment, the case didn't matter, the Work didn't matter, Sherlock just wanted to feel that stubble scraping against his skin, to feel John move underneath him and kiss the doctor breathless.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" John's voice broke into Sherlock's daydream, and the detective snapped to attention. He could feel his face coloring but chose to ignore both it and his increased pulse. Instead, he simply frowned again and remained in his sulking position, tightening his grip on his legs to pull them closer to his chest.  
John moved so that he sat in front of Sherlock, and he placed a hand on his friend's forehead. Sherlock wanted to pull away, but his hand felt nice and cool against his skin. "You feel a bit warm, perhaps you're coming down with something," John commented. Sherlock shook his head fiercely. "Sherlock, listen to me for once, alright? Just lie down for a bit, the world isn't going to end just because you took a nap." John smiled a bit, and dammit if it didn't go straight to Sherlock's chest, making his heart flutter and breathing speed up- stupid, stupid transport malfunctions.

The doctor gave Sherlock's shoulder a light push, moving him down into a lying position, and Sherlock couldn't help the images that immediately flooded his mind- images of how pleasant this would be in a different situation, one where John wasn't acting in a simply medical capacity. John hovered over Sherlock for a moment after the detective was reclined. Without even taking a moment to calculate the possibilities, Sherlock reached up, took hold of John's prickly chin, and pulled the man's mouth down to meet his own.

There was a moment of terror in which John froze and Sherlock had time to think of every single way John could react- horror, disgust, fury- but then John relaxed against him and Sherlock's mind went blank. For the first time, his entire mind was focused completely on that moment, on the feel of John's lips against his, the gentle scratch of his scruff against Sherlock's cheeks, and the electricity, the sparks that seemed to dance across and between their skins. John pulled back a moment later with a surprised noise caught in his throat.

"H-how long?" John asked, his pupils blown wide. Sherlock gave a small smirk and leaned up to kiss John again. He hummed lightly into the doctor's mouth.

"How long…" Sherlock murmured between them. "Bloody well long enough."

John beamed and pushed Sherlock back down against the sleeping bag, seeming to make it his goal to make up for lost time. Only a few moments later Sherlock's phone went off. John rolled off of Sherlock to allow him to answer it.

Sherlock gave the phone a cursory glance before tossing it to the far corner of the tent and pulling John back to him.

"Who- who was it?" John gasped out between Sherlock's lips.

"Mycroft. Unimportant," Sherlock replied, dragging his hand slowly down to the hem of John's jumper and peeling it off. John shivered delightfully and Sherlock placed it in his mind palace along with every other movement and sound the man had ever made.

"It could've been… about the case," John murmured, bending his head down to pepper kisses across Sherlock's neck, his stubble grazing across Sherlock's tender skin.

"As I said, unimportant," Sherlock gasped out as John sank his teeth gently into Sherlock's collarbone. John smiled into his skin, and just the thought of it was enough to decide things for Sherlock. He officially never wanted to be away from this man, this person who taught him how to feel and how to l- care. How to care about other people. He pressed even closer to his doctor, his soldier, his John, and he had no intention of ever moving away again.


End file.
